October 26, 2025|ד' חשון ה' אלפים תשפ"ו Tzohar Ta’aseh La-Teivah: Finding and Sharing Light in a World of Darkness By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

Every week, I become more inspired by the stories of the rescued hostages — and I see our holy Torah come alive in their courage.

I don’t know if any of you know this, but we’re doing construction in our house. 

You know that house on Waukena Avenue with all the vans in the driveway, piles of debris, and open windows that make you wonder if anyone still lives there? 

That’s my house. We are under construction. And while I think (I hope!) we’re nearing the end, I never imagined it would take this long.

And I wonder: how long did Noach think his construction project would take?

God commands him to build a teivah with exact dimensions — 300 by 50 by 30 amot — but the Torah doesn’t say how long it took. Rashi says it took 120 years. 

Why so long? Probably because Noach was Jewish. Jews and construction projects… not a good combination.

Noach spends years on this teivah, but unlike me, he doesn’t need permits or architects, electricians, plumbers, tile guys, countertop guys, appliance guys or endless decisions about knobs, handles, cabinets, light fixtures and paint color. He just has to build a boat. Some instructions are clear — gopher wood, coated with pitch inside and out, a slanted roof so the water will run off. There’s even a door on the side so people can enter and exit. Three levels. But otherwise, it’s up to him. Quartzite countertops or not, crown moldings — that’s Noach’s choice.

Yet there’s one curious instruction: “Tzohar ta’aseh la-teivah — make a tzohar for the ark.”

What’s a tzohar? The word appears nowhere else in the Torah.

Rashi gives two interpretations. Perhaps a tzohar is a window, a chalon, letting sunlight stream in during the day. Or perhaps it’s a precious stone, an even tovah, that shines with its own inner light.

The Bartenura explains that the first view connects tzohar to tzaharayim — midday, the time of greatest natural light. The second view connects tzohar to Zohar, meaning radiance — a gem that glows from within.

What’s the difference?

If tzohar means a window, it’s about light from the outside — openness, connection, engagement with the world.

If tzohar means a gem, it’s about light from the inside — inner faith, strength, and spiritual resilience when the world outside is dark.

And perhaps this parallels the classic question Rashi quotes at the start of the parsha: Was Noach righteous only in his own generation, or would he have been righteous in any generation? Maybe those who praise him see him as the window type — reaching outward even in a corrupt world — while those who limit his greatness see him as the gem type — focused inward, preserving light only for himself and his family.

But maybe, as the Chizkuni teaches, both are true.

When the world was engulfed in darkness, Noach used the precious stone to light his teivah. But when the storm began to clear, he opened the window — sending out the raven and the dove, searching for signs of renewal. In the depths of the mabul, he needed to turn inward to survive. But when the waters receded, he knew it was time to open outward and rebuild the world.

That’s the rhythm of spiritual life — sometimes we must retreat inward to find our light; sometimes we must open outward to share it.

When there is darkness, some people give up.

Some manage to survive.

But some — some create light.

This week, one of the freed hostages, Rom Braslavski, said that during the 738 days he was held by Palestinian Islamic Jihad, his Jewish identity was the only thing that gave him strength. “The only thing that gave me strength,” he said, “was knowing that everyone around me wasn’t Jewish, and that the reason I was there was simply because I’m a Jew.”

“They kept telling me, ‘We are Muslims,’ ‘We are Arabs,’ ‘We are the true religion,’ ‘We are Muhammad,’” he recalled. But he refused to renounce his faith. Surrounded by hatred, he found light in knowing who he was. That awareness — ani Yehudi — became his tzohar, his inner radiance.

His mother, Tami, explained how his captors tried to tempt him with food and gifts if only he would convert to Islam. But he never gave in. He clung to his Jewish identity — and that became his light in the darkness.

And yet, after enduring such horror, who could blame a survivor for wanting to close the window forever? To seal off the world?

That’s why I was so moved reading about Eliya Cohen. Only seven months after emerging from Hamas captivity, he got down on one knee and proposed to his longtime girlfriend, Ziv Abud — the woman who never stopped believing he’d return. Before October 7th, Eliya had already bought the ring. He planned to propose after the Nova Festival — but instead, he was kidnapped into Gaza. For more than 200 days, he didn’t know if Ziv was alive. She was. She waited. And this week, on a Tel Aviv rooftop filled with white roses and tears, Eliya finally asked the question he’d carried through the darkness: “Will you marry me?”
And Ziv said yes.

That’s the story of a tzohar — not only light that shines in the darkness, but light that dares to open again to the world when the darkness lifts.

We need both kinds of tzohar:

The gem — the faith and strength to keep shining when the world around us is dark.

And the window — the courage to open ourselves again, to rebuild, to hope, when the sun begins to shine.

Today, we too live in a world of mabul — of moral confusion, violence, isolation, and fear. Once again, the Jewish people must build teivot — spaces of holiness, family, Torah, faith, and moral clarity. Hashem commands that our teivah not remain dark; it must have a tzohar.

Every week, we have moments of tzohar — moments when we create light. It’s called Shabbat.

Every day, we have moments of tzohar — moments when we stop to bring light into our lives. It’s called tefillah.

These practices train us to build light — so that when darkness comes, we know how to shine through it.

In Israel, the world may rage with darkness, but the tzohar reminds us that Am Yisrael carries its own light. Even surrounded by hatred, our moral and spiritual radiance must shine.

In the Diaspora, our teivah of Torah must not become a ghetto. It must be a window — open to the world, illuminating it — and also a gem, radiating the inner light of Torah and faith.

Our mission is to make our teivot — our homes, our shuls, our schools, our communities — places of both protection and radiance. When the world floods with chaos, Hashem calls on us not to despair, but to become bearers of light: windows when light still shines outside, and jewels when it does not.

In every generation, the mabul takes on new forms — sometimes external, sometimes internal — but the Divine command remains the same:
“Tzohar ta’aseh la-teivah” — make a source of light for your ark.

When the world grows dark, Hashem does not ask us to despair.

He asks us to shine.